


The Trophies of War

by Sonnet23



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (b)romance, Crowley has the weirdest dreams, Fluff, Gen, Historical References, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Middle Ages, Some Action, cracks in the "fourth wall"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28795824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonnet23/pseuds/Sonnet23
Summary: At the end of the Hundred Years’ War, Crowley is taken hostage by a French knight. He doesn’t take this adventure seriously at first, and his captor is rather a nice human. But something seems to be wrong with the castle, and Aziraphale doesn’t hurry to rescue him…
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2020





	The Trophies of War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/gifts).



> 1) I tried to experiment with form a bit, so ideally you should be able to read this story in two ways: a) read chapters in the order they appear b) or read Crowley’s chapters first, and then read Aziraphale’s chapters to learn what the angel was doing in the meantime.
> 
> 2) I didn’t try to mimic the style of medieval language at all, because it wouldn’t have been consistent. Let’s just pretend that this is a translation into modern English.
> 
> A huge thank you to Lunasong365 and Irisbleufic for beta-reading this story!

**_Crowley – 1._ **

Crowley blamed the horse.

If it were not for the stupid animal he wouldn’t be in this stupid situation, in this stupid castle with this stupid human who was actually rather nice, but that was not the point.

He was not his type.

No, that was not the point either. The point was… the point was he had to convince young Henry to continue the war against France so that Crowley could meet Aziraphale every once in a while. Oh yes, and it was also Hell’s order. Anyway.

Instead, Crowley had managed to fall off a horse, got himself taken hostage, and was currently stuck in some stupid castle apparently in the middle of nowhere.

Well, we’d better go back to the beginning, shall we? This story’s going to have enough changing points of view as it is – you don’t really want to have a whole paragraph in Past Perfect, do you? So…

***

**_Aziraphale – 1._ **

“Aziraphale, this war has to stop. Both countries have had enough. The nobles have turned it into a job and the poor villages and serfs are those who really suffer. We’re going to help the French again, and even if there have to be some final battles, at least it will be over this time. Do you think there’ll be any resistance from the opposition?”  
  
“Well, I can’t be sure, of course, Michael; the demon Crowley is very cunning, and it’s not like he lets me know his plans…” Aziraphale wasn’t sure where Michael was going, but he had a plan of his own for this exact situation. He’d been preparing it for a while already, and now it seemed that he’d finally have to use it.  
  
“We can’t afford any setbacks. If you aren’t certain you can handle him, we’ll send extra people to take him off the board.”  
  
“No, no, no, no!” Aziraphale’s reaction was probably too sudden because Michael frowned. Aziraphale hurried to explain. “That is completely unnecessary. I’ve actually got a plan to stop Crowley and hold him back until the war is over.”  
  
“What do you have in mind?”  
  
“Have you heard about the tradition of taking hostages?”  
  


***  
  


****

**_Crowley – 2._ **

Crowley woke up as something wet was pouring from his forehead down his cheek. Not blood, no; blood tended to be slower. Stickier.

No, this was water or something like it. Warm. Nice.

Crowley blinked and opened his eyes. A young man was staring down at him with slightly worried eyes, huge and blue. He was clutching a bloody wet cloth in his fingers.  
  
“Oh! You’re awake, sir!” he said and immediately pulled back. “How are you feeling?”

“Er,” Crowley said, trying to figure it out. His head was throbbing and his thoughts were a bit fuzzy, but all in all, he seemed to be alright.  
  
“Alive… I guess.”  
  
“I’m so happy to hear that. I saw you fall off the horse, and it’d been going so fast, and then there was this rocky ground! I thought you’d be di-dead.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Sorry, I s-sometimes have this… this thing when I’m worried. A stammer.”  
  
“Oh. Well, no need to worry about me, sir..?”  
  
“Philippe.”

“Just _Philippe_?”

“Philippe… d’An…”

“D’Anjou?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“ _The_ Anjou?”

“Just a distant relative.”

“Great. I’m a hostage of the queen’s cousin.”

“And you? If I may ask?”

“Huh, you’re taking a hostage without even knowing who he is? And what if I’m just some useless sellsword not worthy of your hospitality?”

“Oh no, that’s completely impossible, sir!” Philippe said with a smile. “First of all, your clothes give away a person of exquisite and expensive tastes. Besides, your sword hasn’t yet seen many battles, so you can’t have been selling it to earn your living, or you would have died from hunger. And last but not least – your face and hands…” The knight’s fingers brushed gently over Crowley’s forehead and his left temple and then took one of his hands. “They are too soft to belong to a commoner.”

That was when Crowley took the time to notice that his other hand was tied to the bed with a silk ribbon.

“I guess you liked them so much that you wanted to keep one for yourself?” Crowley huffed, looking at the ribbon.

“Oh, dear, I completely forgot!” Philippe exclaimed, blushing. “I’m so sorry. It’s just you kept trying to touch your wound while you were unconscious, so I had to keep it in place.”

“Why only one?”

“Er… You were…er… holding my hand with the other.”

“Was I?” Now it was Crowley’s turn to blush.  
  
“I think you were in pain. That’s okay, I’m most willing to help, sir..?” He made another try, and Crowley gave up.

“Crowley. Anthony Crowley.”

“Very nice to meet you, sir Crowley. You see, there’s another reason why you can’t be unworthy of my hospitality. I just couldn’t leave you on the battlefield. You’d fallen right in the middle of it; the horses would have crushed your skull in no time.”

“So you’re my saviour and not my captor, huh?”

“Can’t see why I can’t be both,” the knight gave him a genuine smile, but Crowley suspected that he was only pretending to be such a dear while in fact, the only thing he was interested in was a ransom for a wealthy Englishman.

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Is there anyone you could write to who would be willing to spare some money for your freedom?”

And there it was.

Crowley thought for a moment. One rather romantic thought suddenly occurred to him. What if he wrote a letter to Aziraphale and said he was held hostage in a castle by a handsome young knight? What would the angel do?

Because of the conflicts between England and France throughout the century, they had met many times in all kinds of circumstances, and Crowley had helped Aziraphale in several difficult situations, so it was only fair for Aziraphale to repay the favours. And he might even come himself if Crowley said that this knight liked Crowley’s company too much and would have trouble parting with him.

He almost didn’t notice when the thought became a daydream. So when strong and soft fingers squeezed his own, he jumped a bit in surprise.

“Sir? Are you alright? Is it your head?” Philippe sounded genuinely concerned.

“No, no, I’m fine. Just got lost in thoughts. You see, so many people would gladly part with their fortune to get me out of trouble.”

“Oh, I’m sure they would,” he said, and Crowley thought that had sounded a bit sarcastic. Or maybe it was just normal demonic paranoia. “So, who are we writing to?”

Crowley smiled.

“Sir Aziraphale.”

***  
  


**_Aziraphale – 2._ **

When Aziraphale read Crowley’s letter, he was furious. No, that’s not right – why would he be furious? He had neither reasons nor the right to be. He was annoyed, – yes, annoyed. And shocked that Crowley had the guts to write to him things like that at all.

_“Please, do me a favour and come to my rescue, or at least send some money. For I’m a prisoner here, and though my jailor is kind, I fear that he might be_ too _kind to me, at least if I’m willing to give him what he desires–”_ What the Heaven did the fiendish serpent mean by that?!

Aziraphale threw the letter on the table. He was not going to fall for Crowley’s wicked little manipulations.

***

**_Crowley – 3._ **

Philippe took Crowley’s letter and brought him dinner, after which Crowley was left alone. Despite having spent some time unconscious, he still felt unusually tired, and the wound on his head didn’t show any signs of healing. Crowley had probably hit the ground harder than he’d initially thought. So after dinner, he just lay down on the bed and fell asleep.

The next morning he felt a bit better and decided it was time to leave the room and see the rest of the castle. He also wished to find the exit. He wanted Aziraphale to rescue him very much, but he wasn’t going to rely on the angel entirely, was he?

The castle was huge and mostly uninhabited. In some of the rooms, there was no furniture at all, and some looked as if the dust was the only thing that was holding those tables and chairs together. If he were to blow the dust off, the table would collapse.

There were no people. No servants or family members.

“Where am I, for Satan’s sake”, Crowley mumbled as he crept down the wide staircase covered by a shroud of spider webs.

Downstairs, there was a wide hall where some rusty suits of armour stood along the walls. They were staring at him. Or so it felt.

There was a large cast-iron door too.

Slowly, carefully, Crowley reached the last step and started towards the door.

This was probably too much exercise for his battered body, because in the middle of the room he already felt a bit dizzy. After a couple of steps he felt nausea building up inside him, and then all of a sudden his nose started bleeding.

Crowley was more than annoyed by that. Damn those horses; how badly had he been hurt if he still hadn’t managed to heal properly after that accident?

He made a few more steps towards the door, and when he almost thought he could reach the handle, his head exploded with horrible pain. Crowley screamed and lost consciousness.

*

“God, why did you even get up, you silly thing,” a familiar voice muttered next to him, and Crowley felt something wet touch his lips. “Drink.”

Crowley’s dry lips parted obeying that voice, and he took a small sip of some drink smelling slightly of herbs and alcohol.

“Aziraphale?..” he mumbled, because who else could be so gentle and caring to him? Surely the angel had come, Crowley’s wish for once had been granted…

“Oh, no, sir, it’s only me, Philippe. Sorry.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes tighter and wished he could faint again. Not only was he still trapped in this horrible castle with this knight who wasn’t even his t… well… To top it off he had also given away his longing for Aziraphale.

“W–what’s happened?”

“You passed out in the hall. You’re still too weak to get up, I suppose. It’s good you didn’t make it out of the building – imagine what could have happened if you’d collapsed somewhere in the woods?”

Crowley looked around. He was back in his room and lying on the bed, and Philippe was sitting by his side holding a cup.

“Something’s wrong…” Crowley mumbled not paying attention to the concerned fussing of his host. “I should have recovered already. My powers aren’t coming back.”

“What?”

“Something didn’t let me leave the castle,” he realised. However weird that might seem, Crowley couldn’t find another explanation.

“Well, that’s not possible, what on earth could have..? Although…” Philippe trailed off as some thought occurred to him. He huffed and shook his head.

“What is it?” Crowley frowned.

“There were legends told about this castle, you know? That the knight who built it was a saint; he fought with King Richard in the Holy Land or something. And that he’s buried somewhere here, so no evil can cross the border of this place without the permission of the host. But this is obviously not true.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, I’ve never believed that one could become a saint by fighting. And secondly, you’re not evil.”

“How do you know?”

“I can say it, sir. I’m sure.” The man smiled in a way that was shy and confident at the same time, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel something warm rise inside him.

“You know nothing,” he muttered, hiding his eyes.

“Oh?”

“What about Joan?”

“Joan?”

“A fighting saint.”

“Ah. That was different. She’d become a saint first and had to fight afterwards. Her feat was not in killing the infidels – it was in raising the spirits of the French people, bringing them hope and faith.”

“Did you know her?” Crowley asked, just to distract himself from his alarming thoughts. If the curse of this castle was real – and it very much seemed to be – he was stuck here for Hell knows how long, and he was depending solely on Aziraphale’s good will to come and rescue him. And however badly Crowley wished for this to happen, he knew the angel well enough not to hope too much.

He was a demon, after all, and they were enemies. And in this war, their interests were too different. It’d be very convenient for Aziraphale if Crowley spent another decade or so out of business.

“I didn’t know her,” Philippe said. “But I fought with her in Orleans. And I saw her burn.”

“Really? What were you, ten?”

“Fifteen. She was amazing. So full of faith! But I don’t think it was her faith in God that had made her a hero. It was the faith in her people.”

“I wonder if she knew that her king and her angels had sacrificed her to win that war.”

“Even if she did, that wouldn’t change anything for her.”

“Don’t tell me about the greater good; I hate the idea,” grumbled Crowley. Why had he even asked about it in the first place?

“Oh no, it’s not about the greater good. It’s about human nature. She inspired so many people. And she will continue to do so – to show that one person can do incredible things and change the course of history.”

“What about you, then? Are you aiming for it too? Changing history?”

“No, I’m not,” Philippe laughed a bit at that. “I’m more of an observer. I very much hope that this new union between your country and mine will bring an end to the wars.”

“What are you going to observe then?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you!” Philippe got excited at the question, but then suddenly caught himself in mid-sentence, and looked at Crowley a bit guiltily. “But how are you feeling? Maybe you would prefer to rest a bit? Or have something to eat?”

Crowley thought about it. Maybe if he ate something, he would be able to regain some of his strength?

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a good meal.”

“Excellent!” Philippe beamed. “Then I’ll make a few arrangements and then help you come down to my study.”

“You have _a study_?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t even get caught by a normal knight; he had to have picked someone Aziraphale-like.

“Oh, yes, I’m spending quite a lot of time here now, since old Bedford died. So I decided there’s no reason why I shouldn’t make myself comfortable.”

Philippe left and then came back and took Crowley to the study.

The study was a round room, apparently situated in one of the towers, and it was much cosier than the rest of the castle. It was small in diameter, but the ceiling was high above them, and all the walls on several levels were covered with books, scrolls and all sorts of antiquities and weird souvenirs.

Crowley gave a whistle at the sight – it was just the kind of room Aziraphale would love to spend the rest of eternity in.

“Do you like it?” Philippe asked, barely hiding the pride in his voice.

“Yeah. It’s nice. Where did you get all these from?”

“Oh, it’s my Father’s collection. He was a warrior too, of course. But while the other knights used to rob the treasuries of the conquered cities, Father rescued the books from the archives that were to be burnt. I continued his work.”

“Right.”

“Do you like to read? I could find something for you to distract your thoughts from captivity if you want.”

“Oh, no, thanks.” Crowley hurriedly shook his head and even stepped away from the bookshelf as if the books could jump at him and make him read them. “I prefer other distractions.” He glanced meaningfully at the wooden table already set and full of all sorts of dishes. It was only then that Crowley realised how terribly hungry he was.

“Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry, I’m a horrible host!” exclaimed Philippe, and led Crowley to the table.

They sat close to each other, and Philippe poured him some wine. Crowley drank and then remembered something Philippe had told him before he offered for him to come down in the first place.

“So, you were going to tell me what kind of observer you are. Is it somehow connected with..?” Crowley made a gesture in the direction of the books.

“Exactly!” Philippe smiled. “You see, I feel that all these years of wars between our two countries have had an unexpected and truly remarkable side effect. England has become a country of its own, completely independent from France. And its culture is extraordinary. Can you believe that a little more than fifty years ago there was no literature written in English? And now, look at Chaucer and Gower, at all those wonderful poems written in common English. It’s a language that has beauty and humour, and it belongs to the people who have lots to say! And what about the architecture? And education? Have you heard about The King’s College in Cambridge? Oh, all of this will make England a great country. And it doesn’t really matter how big its territory will be.”

“Oh my!” Crowley finally managed to say. “I’d be damned if you are not an ardent admirer of England!”

“I am indeed, my dear sir, I am indeed,” Philippe blushed. “I hope that our countries will make peace at last and I’ll be able to see all the wonders of this new age.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Crowley said and raised his cup. He didn’t really need a toast to drink; the wine was good, and the warm and cosy atmosphere of the study was relaxing. And the company – well, it wasn’t so bad after all. If Crowley tried, he could almost pretend he was here with Aziraphale.

“You speak so passionately,” Crowley said, putting down his cup. “I almost want this war to stop too.”

“Oh, but why wouldn’t you? Just imagine when it all ends we could meet at some ball and dance together. What do they dance in England now?”

“I’ve no idea. Haven’t been to many balls. What about here? Surely such a refined gentleman as yourself should know everything about dancing.”

Crowley liked the way Philippe’s cheeks blushed a little at that. He was indeed a fine gentleman and a generous host. And if Crowley had to be trapped for some time, he was glad that it was with this man and not with some awful rusty knight who’d never take off his armour or let the hostage out of his jail. Besides, if Aziraphale came to rescue him, it would be funny to tell him that he was actually having a great time with Philippe.

All those thoughts combined with a third glass of wine and a nice piece of roast beef led to the fact that after Philippe said thoughtfully…

“Well, they dance something called a branle. But I really don’t–”

…Crowley suddenly answered:

“Could you show me?”

“W-What?”

“Teach me to dance it, then I’ll bring it to England, and afterwards the archivists will say that the branle was another trophy that the English brought home from the war with France.”

Philippe laughed.

“I’d like all English trophies to be of that kind.”

“Dream on!” huffed Crowley, but then stood up and held out a hand to Philippe. “Well, then?”

“Er… Okay, I’ll try to show what I’ve seen, but… Won’t we need music?”

Normally, Crowley could miracle a harp or a pipe to play on their own, but right now, he was having difficulty even miracling his bruises away, so he said:

“Haven’t you got a bard here or something?”

“I… er… well, no. You see, I’m a bit of a hermit here.”

“But you’ve got some kind of staff at least? Servants?”

When Philippe’s face showed no less embarrassment than a moment before, Crowley decided to make sure he got it right.

“You didn’t set the table yourself, did you?”

“No!” Philippe said hurriedly as if the suggestion had frightened him. “I have a… a maid, I suppose. A cook. She helps me out a bit. But I sent her home after she’d served the dinner.”

“Oh. I see. That’s a relief.”

“Why?” Philippe looked genuinely nervous for some reason.

“I would hate to have brought you so much trouble.” Crowley smiled a bit more flirtingly than it was appropriate and a little less than he could if he acted like a proper demonic tempter. He was beginning to get just a tiny bit attracted to this person, whose cheeks were just the right shade of pink when he blushed, and who had tried to impress his guest-slash-hostage.

“N-no trouble at all…”

“Good. So, no bards, no servant, no music. I guess I could sing then?”

“You can sing?” Philippe’s eyes went round.

“Well, yeah. A bit. What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing, I just… haven’t heard many English songs yet. Would love to, er.”

“Fine, then.” Crowley smiled. He didn’t often sing. In fact, he never did – at least not in front of other people. But when he was alone, he sometimes liked to hum the catchy tunes of English peasants or soldiers, which made working and marching easier and whose words were most often about love and death.

So he sang. Quietly and tentatively at first, half-waiting for the knight to laugh at him and stop him. But Philippe listened, his mouth slightly opened in surprise. So Crowley sang louder. He sang the first thing he remembered and the one that sounded like something called a ‘branle’ in his opinion should sound.

The melody was rather lively but the words were sad. However, most peasants’ songs were like that so Crowley doubted that Philippe would be shocked.

He wasn’t shocked, was he?

“Well?” Crowley asked between the verses when the knight didn’t move.

“Uh?”

“Are you going to teach me?”

“Oh, yes, right.” Philippe shook himself and stepped towards Crowley. “First we hold our hands like this, and there’re steps…”

They danced, and when Crowley finally got all the moves right, the song ended, so he started again. And then the dance ended, so they started again. And so it went on till Crowley’s throat hurt and Philippe learned the words and took over.

It had been so long since Crowley trusted a human that much. It could have terrified him if the feeling of belonging somewhere – if only for a moment – was not so achingly pleasant. It could terrify him tomorrow.

Finally, they stopped and laughed, and Crowley leaned on Philippe’s shoulder to support himself.

“You should have some rest,” Philippe said, his voice full of guilt and somewhat tense. “I shouldn’t make you exert yourself so much.”

“’M fine,” answered Crowley, though now that he was stopped, he really felt that he was going to pass out any moment.

“Let me take you to your room.”

He took Crowley by the elbow and led him upstairs.

“Hmph…” The wine and the exhaustion were finally taking over Crowley. When they were in his room he asked:

“Will you stay with me?”

“What?! God, no!” Philippe exclaimed and grew red again. Just like… Just like the forbidden fruit he’d never touch.

Crowley must have looked upset or something because Philippe continued more gently:

“You really should rest.”

“Okay. ’ll go on tomorrow. Thanksss for teaching me.”

“My pleasure. Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a beautiful voice.”

“It’s just a beautiful song, ’s all.” Crowley smiled and fell onto his bed. “I’ll sing you another one later if you like,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“I’d like that very much, my dear,” the knight said quietly and closed the door.

***

**_Aziraphale – 3._ **

After that evening in the study, Aziraphale was confused and delighted despite himself. But mostly confused. And even angry. Yes, angry!

Crowley’s behaviour was outrageous. He fell so easily for some ordinary human whom he barely knew that it made Aziraphale go green with– no, of course, not envy – disgust. Yes. It made him sick. Was that always the case? Did Crowley use every single chance to have a good time with humans?

It wasn’t supposed to bother Aziraphale so much, and yet it did.

The following morning after the dances, Crowley came down and asked for a cup of tea, but his host had locked himself in the study and sent him a pot with the maid. With no cakes or biscuits.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. His plan was going entirely as he’d wanted, but the pleasure it brought to him was not the same as the pleasure of really spending time with Crowley. As himself.

He was angry with Crowley, yes, but it was no use to spend the whole days just keeping him locked in the castle. Having him for himself and not even using this unique possibility. He had to at least make it up with him. At least as Philippe.

Finally, he gave up. And went up the stairs.

***

**_Crowley – 4._ **

Crowley knew he’d scared Philippe off. He’d been too open and too desperate, and that had never led to anything good. Neither with humans nor with… anybody.

He didn’t feel like explaining himself or trying to make up with his host-slash-jailer. If Philippe didn’t want his friendship, Crowley didn’t need his. He just hoped Aziraphale would come and get him out sooner.

With every passing day, Crowley felt his energy fade away. The castle was doing something to his powers, blocking them and making Crowley live as a mortal. It was exhausting. He had to eat, and drink, and go to the bathroom. And he slept an awful lot. Exhausting.

Sleep, however, brought some relief. Crowley dreamt of Aziraphale, riding a white horse, white cape and white wings unfurled behind him. He rode all the way up to Crowley’s jail – yes, it was a jail in his dreams – broke the chains – again, yes, you heard me alright – with his sword, and took Crowley in his arms.

“You’re so weak, my dear, what has he done to you?” he’d ask.

Crowley wouldn’t answer, just snuggle closer to the metal breast-plate and bury his nose in the pit of the angel’s neck.

The image was so vivid, and Crowley felt so sorry for himself that his eyes grew wet.

And just as it always is, there was a knock on the door.

***

**_Aziraphale – 4._ **

Aziraphale opened the door to Crowley’s room. The demon hadn’t left it for a while, and Aziraphale was beginning to worry. When he saw tears in Crowley’s eyes, his worry turned into terror.

“W–what’s wrong?” he asked, instinctively rushing towards Crowley’s bed. “Do you need anything? Does something hurt?” The questions slipped from his tongue in a row before he could stop himself. Crowley was silent. He squeezed his eyes shut apparently trying to banish the tears.

“No,” he finally said. “You can leave.”

“But… but I’ve come to check on you. If you’re okay. And you’re obviously not okay!” Aziraphale fretted. “Please, tell me what’s wrong? I’ll try to fix it.”

“Why? Are you an angel or something?” Crowley scoffed. “Or maybe a medic? You don’t even have servants to set the table for you, so I doubt that you should be trusted in finding medical aid. Besides, why would you care?”

“I do care!” Aziraphale protested.

“Oh, bugger off,” Crowley said and turned his face to the cold wall.

Aziraphale was genuinely worried this time. Had he somehow overdone it with the spell? Should he lift it? But Heaven’s operation wasn’t over yet. If they learnt Crowley was not off the board, they would try to hurt him. And Aziraphale had come too far in trying to prevent it. He was not letting it happen.

“Tell me,” he begged quietly. “Can I do anything for you? Maybe you could write another letter to your friend? Or… to someone else?”

He hated the idea of Crowley turning to anyone other than him for help. But he had to offer. It was only fair to give him a chance. If it were a human, Aziraphale would buy himself some time pretending that he’s delivered the message. If Crowley brought Hell into it… Well, Aziraphale had nothing to be afraid of.

“There’s no point,” Crowley answered, addressing the wall. “I don’t _have_ anyone else. And Aziraphale… is not coming.”

Aziraphale’s heart broke. He had to finish this. He would meet the archangels and say that they had to wind up the war as soon as possible. And then…

…Then he’ll “save” Crowley.

“He will come,” he said as confidently as he could without giving himself away and left the room.

***

**_Crowley – 5._ **

Philippe had looked genuinely distressed to see Crowley cry. He’d even offered him to write to Aziraphale again.

“He will come,” he’d said.

_No, he won’t_ , Crowley had wanted to say.

Aziraphale had abandoned him. It wasn’t such a great surprise, Crowley tried to convince himself. They weren’t really friends after all, now, were they? They just liked each other’s company and sometimes helped each other with their work.

And with other things.

Like that time in Ashville about a century ago. Crowley had thought that it had meant something. To him, it certainly had.

~~~~

_When Crowley came to that village ruined and ravaged by the plague, he was sure that the angel was dead. No one could survive this, not even an ethereal being. The disease was floating in the air like smoke, like spores of some poisonous mushroom ready to fall into the soil of one’s body. Mixing with this smoke were the despair and pain of hundreds of people, which an angelic creature – no matter fallen or not – could feel even before they felt it themselves._

_And then there was that church. Tiny, but with its spire striving to rise high into the sky like all English churches,_ _it was filled to the brim with death and suffering. Full to the top of its bell tower. And there, on the top, Crowley felt a fading spark of divinity. Angelic presence, so small and weak that he could mistake it for his own hope._

_But it was there. And it was familiar._

_Crowley didn’t wait another second._

_He ran into the church immediately, feeling the ground burn his feet. Inside it was darker than outside – with no moon and no stars to light up the horrors. But Crowley could see well in the darkness. He would prefer not to._

_Bodies lay rotting in the aisles, put neatly next to each other. But in the main hall, there was a huge pile of bones and flesh and tattered cloth that used to be people. At some point, it had become impossible to bury everyone, so they’d brought them here, to this small church, to wait for Pestilence to leave and for someone to come and give these poor people their final resting place. At least they were waiting on sacred ground; some of the others didn’t even get that…_

_Which reminded Crowley–_

_“Argh, damn!” His feet started to smoke and blister. He took a deep breath, tore his eyes from the horrible grave, and staggered to the bell tower._

_Now that his eyes had got used to the darkness completely, he could make out that there were writings all over the walls. The testimony of the last days of those who had succumbed to the plague._

_The stairs were narrow and slippery, and Crowley had to look where he was putting his feet to not step on the remains of some poor bugger. He tried not to touch anything, but he stumbled a couple of times anyway, so now his knees and palms were burnt as well and his teeth were biting into his lip to prevent any unwanted sounds. He didn’t have a right to cry. Didn’t have a right to complain. His side had wanted this._

_Not him, but his side had._

_When he finally got to the top, he was panting and unable to take a proper breath because of the pain and all the screams he was trying to suppress. But he forgot all about it when he saw Aziraphale._

_The angel, dressed in a black robe and gaunt as a shadow, was standing on a wooden ladder and trying to scratch some words on the wall. His thin hand was covered in blood, his whole body was shaking from the effort._

_“A… Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice was barely audible, but Aziraphale heard him and dropped the piece of stone he had been writing with._

_He turned towards him._

_“Crowley? It’s you?” Aziraphale said, and it sounded as if he was begging for it to be true. As if he’d been praying to see him here. “What… what’re doing?..”_

_“Leaving,” Crowley said, then stepped towards Aziraphale, lifted him, and carried him down the stairs and out of this awful church. Aziraphale was as light as his feather, and Crowley didn’t feel the pain of his own wounds anymore; all of it seemed to have gathered in his heart_.

~~~~~

It had been something other than just giving each other a hand with the job or drinking a jug of ale in a pub together, Crowley thought lying on the bed in his room. Since their first meeting, Crowley had soon come to realise that he was completely unable to leave Aziraphale in danger. And although he himself tried not to get into any kind of trouble in the first place – or at least not the kind of trouble Aziraphale could learn of – he believed that the angel would come to his rescue if Crowley were in real danger…

Oh.

He sat up.

Oh, oh, oh, shit!

That was it, right?

Crowley slapped himself on the forehead.

From the tone of Crowley’s letter, Aziraphale could have decided that he wasn’t in real danger. He could have even thought Crowley had been trying to tease him, couldn’t he? Especially as, well, Crowley had _indeed_ been trying to tease him. Only things had changed since then. He really _was_ trapped here, and if something important happened in England or France in his absence, he would be in real, _real_ danger.

Philippe was right, Crowley had to write another letter to Aziraphale.

He stood up and hurried out of the room and downstairs.

“Philippe!” He shouted. “Monsieur Philippe! I’ve changed my mind!”

There was no answer.

He went from one empty room to another finding only old dusty furniture and spider webs everywhere. No sign of Philippe.

But of course, he should be in his study.

Crowley came up to the familiar room where he’d had such nice time only a short while ago and knocked on the door.

No reply.

“Philippe?”

He tried to pull and push the door, but it was very much locked.

His host must have been offended by Crowley’s behaviour and gone away to look for nicer company – or, probably, nicer hostages – and left him alone, trapped in this castle where he could neither use his magic nor leave through the door.

And what if… What if Philippe was killed in a battle? What would become of Crowley? Despite the fact that the prospect made him slightly panic, he found out that his fate wasn’t the only reason why he didn’t want to think about it.

Crowley didn’t want Philippe to be killed.

***

**_Aziraphale – 5._ **

“Aziraphale! Good to see you, you’re right on time,” said Michael who was in his full armour and continued polishing his sword.

“On time?” Aziraphale shifted on his feet. He didn’t know how to start saying what he was going to say.

“Yes. We’ve got a new mission for you. In England.”

“But… but I… I have a mission here, remember? Do you mean that it is time to end it?”

“Exactly. We’ve decided that the final stage of this conflict is too important, and we can’t allow any possible risks. So we’ve changed our mind concerning your demon, Crowley.”

“M-my demon? He’s not my demon, he’s…”

“Well, don’t be so offended, you know what I meant – the demon you’re keeping as a pet. We’ll get rid of him.”

“What?!”

“Tonight.”

“T-tonight?” Aziraphale’s thoughts were racing. Crowley was trapped, he was in mortal danger, and he, Aziraphale had brought it on his head. Bloody treacherous archangels! They’d said they wouldn’t kill demons in this war; why did they change their mind?

“Yes,” answered Michael. “Frankly speaking, I just thought you’d done so well in this war that you deserved a reward. A vacation if you like to put it that way. Some ten or twenty years without hellish interference on Earth before they send another representative. Consider it a personal bonus from me.”

“Er… thank you, but… But wouldn’t they get angry? Hell, I mean?”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I have my own secret channels that say it will all be sorted out.”

“Okay. So… so when is this happening exactly?”

“You’d better leave before midnight. The demon might know your weak spots so it will be better if only high ranking angels are involved in this operation. A ship to England will be waiting for you.”

“Right. Fine. Thank you, Michael. See you in England then?”

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale was trying not to break into a sprint while he was going down the stairs and across the yard of the monastery where Michael had temporarily made his residence. But once he got on his horse, he rode back to the castle as quickly as the animal could carry him and even faster.

***

**_Crowley – 6._ **

Crowley was dreaming again. It was the most pleasant thing to do since he was soon going to die. If he was lucky he wouldn’t even notice the moment sleep turned into death.

(Crowley had never yet died from hunger, otherwise, he would have known that this moment is hard to overlook.)

He didn’t know how long he’d stayed alone in that castle. Could have been days, or weeks, or months…

(It was, in fact, six hours.)

But at least this dream he was seeing now was his favourite.

It began with some vague sounds outside his window. And he knew that Aziraphale had come to rescue him, at last. He was in his shining armour and a cape, of course, – Crowley didn’t even need to get up and look out of the window to picture the angel in full glory.

But he knew that if he opened his eyes and looked out of the window, he would see nobody.

“Crowley!” dream Aziraphale called. Crowley dreamt that he answered.

Aziraphale miracled a rope then and called again.

“Crowley? Are you there?”

Crowley thought an answer again. He didn’t need to say it out loud; in his dreams, Aziraphale could always hear him.

After that, he started hearing some familiar noises of clattering metal, and then some huffing and puffing too, which although should have been quite natural, hadn’t normally accompanied his heroic-rescue-dreams before.

Crowley frowned in his sleep. Something was off.

“Crowley!” he heard again, this time louder. “Come here. It’s me, Aziraphale!”

“I know,” mumbled Crowley.

“You do?” His heroic knight sounded surprised. “Then come to the bloody window, you moron!”

“Uh?”

Something was definitely off.

Aziraphale shouldn’t sound like… the _real_ Aziraphale, realised Crowley.

Was he..? was this..?

“A–Aziraphale?” Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he sat up in his bed and then almost fell out of it.

Above the windowsill, he saw a small cloud of curly blond locks, and then Aziraphale’s face appeared in the window.

It was red and glistened with sweat a bit, and it was _not_ very happy to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley asked, not at all like he used to ask him in his dreams.

“Rescuing you, of course!” huffed Aziraphale. “You just said you knew it was me.”

“I thought I was… Never mind. Why are you doing this?”

“You’re in danger here. The archangels know where you are, and they’re going to kill you.”

“Why? Who? How?!”

“Too many questions, dear, and I'm hanging on a rope here.”

“Why are you hanging on a bloody rope?!”

“Have to be inconspicuous,” Aziraphale said, panting. “If they know I’m here, we’ll both be in trouble.”

“How did they know I’m in this castle?” Crowley asked again still struggling to process the reality of Aziraphale actually coming to his rescue. The angel looked absolutely unheroic, with his round blushed face and his clothes and hair in a total mess, and he was clearly annoyed with Crowley and the whole situation, but it was still so much better than his dreams! It was perfect, and Aziraphale was perfect…

“They… they saw your letter to me.”

“You got my letter?!”

“Yes, don’t worry, they thought it was your trap for me, so they don’t know about the Arrangement.”

“Good, but… You got my letter and you didn’t come?!”

“It sounded like you were having quite a nice time here as it was,” Aziraphale said, and from his grumpy expression Crowley guessed that the angel had indeed been pouting because of the letter.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I _was_ , yes.”

“Oh, you were?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and made a move to start climbing down the rope.

“Wait! I didn’t mean… This man… He was nice and all, but he only needed me as a hostage, and it was lonely as hell here, and the castle has some sort of magic that stops me from escaping and blocks my powers, and I’m so tired, Aziraphale, please, don’t leave me here!”

Crowley could hear the desperation in his own voice, which was very inappropriate for a demon like himself. But he almost didn’t care. Aziraphale had come. He cared about Crowley’s life even if he was upset with him. And Crowley could think of a way to save his damaged reputation later.

“Of course I’m not leaving you, silly thing. Get down here,” Aziraphale said, a bit softer.

“Didn’t you hear what I just said? I can’t,” argued Crowley. “The castle won’t let me.”

“I know. I feel the spell around it. But this window is the only unprotected spot.”

“It is?”

“Have you never tried to escape through it?”

“No, I…”

_I’d reserved it for you_ , Crowley thought with a blush. Really, somehow in his dreams, this window had always played a specific role, although he didn’t know why Aziraphale would actually have to climb a wall to get to his window. It was just… It was just too romantic to stop thinking about it.

“Do it. It’s safe,” Aziraphale said and started climbing down.

“Well, then.” Crowley still wasn’t convinced, but he had to try – he wasn’t going to let Aziraphale disappear again. In the worst-case scenario, the angel would have to catch Crowley’s unconscious body falling out of the window. And in fact, Crowley had already fantasized about that, and it had gone rather well in his dreams.

However, the window wasn’t blocked, nor did he start feeling unwell when he began climbing down the rope. It was hard, and Crowley, who was still rather tired from the lack of magic, felt his hands tremble, but they were making good progress rather quickly.

Suddenly, Aziraphale stopped, and Crowley almost stepped on his head.

“What’s..?”

“Shhh!” Aziraphale shushed him. “The angels. They are already here! They said ‘before midnight’, why have they come so early?”

“Are you asking me?” whispered Crowley. “You’re the angel here.”

“I feel them. They’re in the room below us.”

“Shit!” Crowley couldn’t feel a thing without his magic; he couldn’t even feel Aziraphale. But that didn’t mean… “Wait! If you can feel them, can’t they feel _you_?”

“Oh, no. I’m… I’m concealing myself.”

“What? How?”

“A spell. They think they’re sensing a human. It doesn’t last long – it’s much harder than changing the appearance. But it works on ethereal and occult beings, so we’ll be fine.”

_On ethereal and occult_ … _Change the_ …

Crowley didn’t have enough time to finish his thought because the rope suddenly creaked and snapped.

They both fell into the bushes that lined the castle walls.

“Aaah, damn!” Crowley cursed, but Aziraphale pressed his hot palm to his lips, stopping the words. Well, at least he was still whole enough to swear, and Aziraphale – to stop him from it.

As soon as he found himself free from the castle, Crowley could feel his powers slowly returning to him. He felt the angels whose heads immediately peered out of the window. They couldn’t see them in the bushes, but now they could definitely also sense Crowley.

“The demon! He’s escaping!” one of them shouted.

“Down, quickly!” commanded the other.

The window of the room was too narrow for them to get through, so they disappeared again, apparently planning to take another way out.

Crowley noticed that they still couldn’t sense Aziraphale.

“Let’s go!” Aziraphale whispered. “My horse is behind those trees.”

“What? Oh, no! Not again!” Crowley protested, but Aziraphale grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the bushes towards the trees on the edge of the forest.

The horse didn’t like Crowley from first sight, he knew it. It started neighing and stamping and straining the rope it was tied by. But Aziraphale put his hand on its back, said something quietly, and it calmed down. He hopped on its back lightly as if it were a soft bed and not a wild beast.

As he sat on horseback in his armour and a cape, Crowley suddenly saw the exact gorgeous knight from his dreams and fantasies. Only there wasn’t as much pride and adoration in his expression – he was rather worried and a bit embarrassed. But it was even more beautiful because there was so much Aziraphale in that look that for a moment Crowley grew completely still.

Aziraphale got impatient and held out a hand.

“Come on, dear, they’ll be here in no time.”

Crowley shook himself, took Aziraphale’s hand, and jumped up in front of him on the horse's back. Aziraphale’s hands were to his left and to his right, holding the reins and almost embracing him. Crowley had never felt so safe on horseback.

They rode away from the castle, and as Crowley glanced at it one last time, he couldn’t help but note:

“It’s a pity we have to leave this place. I’ve even come to like it.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah. And I haven’t even had a chance to sing you that other song.”

“You can sing it to me in London,” Aziraphale said, and immediately realised. “Oh, bother.”

“You bastard!” said Crowley adoringly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
